


The Proof is in the Pudding

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Savvy's Holiday Fic [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Love Confessions, M/M, No Mary, Post season three, Sherlock tends to drug people at the holidays, background Mystrade only, christmas pudding, just go with it, manipulating people for their own good, no rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-18 03:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Sherlock reveals a little experiment at Christmas dinner and John reveals his hand.
Relationships: Johnlock, Mystrade - Relationship
Series: Savvy's Holiday Fic [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558120
Comments: 18
Kudos: 105
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	The Proof is in the Pudding

**Author's Note:**

> Day 11 prompt Christmas Pudding.

Sherlock tapped his fork on his wine glass, commanding their attention. Heads turned toward the detective as he stood, smiling at them. John, familiar with that particular look, almost groaned. Sherlock was up to something.

“I thought I’d make an announcement, as you should all begin shortly to notice the effects.”

“Effects of what?” Greg asked, topping up his wine glass and holding the bottle out to Mycroft with a smile. He’d been smiling at the other man a lot that evening, a fact which hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, the look of ease fleeing, to be replaced by a weary frown, “What have you done?”

Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin, eyes bright. “I’m conducting an experiment. Have you all enjoyed the plum pudding?”

“Aw Christ,” John groaned, putting a hand over his face.

Putting his fork down (onto his second helping of said pudding), Greg narrowed his eyes, “What have you done?”

“William,” Mycroft said, tone alerting his brother to his level of irritation. “Explain yourself.”

“I’m working on something. You’ll shortly begin to notice warmth and lassitude. Your senses will remain sharp, but your inhibitions will be lowered.” He smiled, almost angelic. “The intended side effect is to render the subject willing--indeed eager--to act on their most deeply buried desires.” He sipped at his wine, “It should be interesting to see what those are.”

Greg stood up, jaw tight, “Sherlock, you tit, I’m an officer of the law. You’ve just admitted to drugging me!”

Sherlock waved a hand, “You’ve forgiven worse.”

“I’ve--” Greg was speechless with rage. Mycroft stood, taking his arm, pulling him from the room with urgent whispers.

John followed them with his eyes, then turned his gaze on Sherlock. “Well,” he said calmly, much more calmly than might have been expected of him, “it wouldn’t be Christmas without you drugging us, I suppose.”

“To be fair, it was only the once,” Sherlock said primly.

John snorted, “You’re not going to be shooting anyone again, are you?”

“No.”

“Oh good.” John studied his face, “I thought it was a bit odd that you invited Greg and Mycroft to Christmas dinner, but I see that you wanted test subjects.” He paused, “Or so it would seem.”

Sherlock was breezy, “Come now, John, you can’t be surprised that I’d behave this way.”

“Drugging us? No. Acting as Cupid? Yeah, bit surprised.”

“Cupid?”

John gestured towards the hallway, where it had gone suspiciously quiet. “You can’t tell me you didn’t intend them to finally act on their mutual crush.”

Sherlock smiled at him, “Oh very good, John.”

John huffed a laugh, “Yeah, well, they’re so obvious even I can spot it, eh?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself, John, under my tutelage you’ve come quite far in ten years,” Sherlock assured him. “Your acuity is improving.”

“Dick,” John said quite fondly. He smiled at Sherlock. Putting one hand over his, he squeezed it warmly with his rough palm. “You’re softer than you let on.”

“Hardly.” His heart was pounding at John’s touch, but he hoped his face remained impassive. Dear God, John’s eyes were so warm! His hopeless love for the other man would be greatly improved by a cessation of such actions.

“I noticed you neglected to outright state that you actually dosed us with anything,” John pointed out, thumb rubbing softly over the back of Sherlock’s hand. “You implied it...but you never said. There’s nothing in the pudding, is there?”

“Plums, to be fair,” Sherlock said, mouth dry.

“Mm,” John smiled softly, “power of suggestion, was it? Suggest that they could act on deeply held desires and let them think it was inescapable.”

“Y-yes.” He looked at John’s hand. “W-what are you doing, John?”

Turning his hand so that it cradled Sherlock’s, John stood, drawing him to his feet also. Stepping close, he looked up into Sherlock’s face as if, as if he were his whole world. Bringing his free hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw, he held his eyes, slowly wetting his lower lip. “Kissing you, if you let me.”

“I’m--you’re--you know I didn’t drug you.” Sherlock’s chest hurt, he wanted so badly to turn his face into John’s palm, to kiss his hand and up his wrist to his mouth, which had been driving him mad for a decade. He wanted it so badly it burned. “You’re not. You don’t have an excuse--”

“None except years of cowardice and doubt,” John countered hoarsely, “I should have set you straight years ago,” he caught his words and a rueful smile curled his mouth up on one side, “I’m not. Not straight. I’m crazy about you, Sherlock--have been from the beginning. I could never believe someone like you even  _ existed.” _

Breathing shaky, Sherlock dared to bring his hand up to touch John’s face, “I could say the same, John. You’re like a dream.” He closed his eyes against the sting of tears, but then quickly opened them, afraid that it might actually be a dream or a hallucination. “Why now?”

“I’m tired of pretending we’re just really good mates,” John confessed, fingers tangling softly in the curls behind Sherlock’s ear. “You said the experiment would leave us eager to act on our most deeply buried desires--well Sherlock,  _ you’re _ what I desire the most.” He swallowed hard, husked out, “What I don’t know is what you want.”

“John,” Sherlock whispered, overcome by emotion. His eyes were wet and he saw in wonder that an answering moisture had filled John’s. “I really, really want you to kiss me.” He gasped softly, “Never stop kissing me.”   
  


John’s smile was glorious, “Never, Sherlock. Never…”

  
  



End file.
